


Hand on the Silver

by FallingFaintly



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Case Fic, Comfort/Angst, F/M, Gen, Idiots in Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-17 17:08:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29844747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FallingFaintly/pseuds/FallingFaintly
Summary: Robin and Strike become tangled in a case that hits close to home, and it's make or break time. For their friendship, for their partnership, and maybe even their lives.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike
Comments: 47
Kudos: 62





	1. Chapter 1

_ Aren't you somethin' to admire? _

_ 'Cause your shine is somethin' like a mirror _

_ And I can't help but notice _

_ You reflect in this heart of mine _

_ If you ever feel alone _

_ And the glare makes me hard to find _

_ Just know that I'm always _

_ Parallel on the other side _

**_Mirrors - Justin Timberlake_ **

Strike knew she would best him eventually. A woman with such a natural instinct for investigation was always going to come across a case she could demolish in short order, and he would be a poor mentor if he couldn’t enjoy watching his protege standing tall. Robin was thrilled to have seen the connections before Strike did, but she wasn’t crowing, she was revelling in it as a mark of having truly come of age in her vocation. 

“We’re partners, Robin. There’s a reason you’re not just a subcontractor,” he had told her when she asked if he thought she was going on about being as good as him. It was a good case to christen the new office, high profile again, and a well paying client, and they ate the celebratory takeaway on decent, unchipped crockery and with wine that cost more than £4.99, on a comfortable, quiet fabric sofa in the main part of the office.

“It’s like a drug itself, isn’t it?” Robin asked, forking the last of the chicken pathia onto her plate. “Finding the answers? I love it.”

Strike nodded, still chewing. “You can see why I was prepared to lose everything to keep it.”

“Truth addict,” she grinned.

“That and biscuits. Some of my vices are very niche,” he replied.

“I think it’s hard for other people to get, though. I think they’d understand a biscuit addiction more than they’d understand this one,” Robin mused, stabbing a chunk of chicken.

“True enough. I s’pose you have to be on the margins to an extent, to be able to do it.”

They ate in quietness for a while.

“Lonely, though. I mean, Matt and I ended for more than job reasons, but it certainly didn’t help. Which I know you warned me about beforehand, but still. It can’t give you much pleasure, being right on that one,” Robin said eventually.

Strike took a large mouthful of red wine.

“No, not really. I love the job, but yeah, sometimes I think I miss other things. You take things for granted, I guess, and then they’re not there and there’s a gap,” he responded, thoughtfully.

“So you fill the gap with the work,” Robin finished for him, and they smiled at each other, a little sadly.

Robin put her empty plate on the floor by her feet. “I do miss some things, though. Having someone there, just for me, at the end of the day. Physical stuff. I don’t miss him at all, but I can’t really see how I’m ever going to be able to maintain a new relationship,” she said, sipping her wine.

Strike heard the loneliness in her statement, and his stomach quailed with a now familiar feeling; the worry that she would eventually find someone else. The longer he let this hang unspoken, the more that possibility seemed likely, especially given what she was saying about loneliness. He toyed with just coming out with it, but it felt too on the nose.

“You don’t have to close that part of yourself off, though. You can still be with someone if you want. It’s a vocation, but we’re not priests,” he said, still eating.

“Got to be casual, though. I’m not like you, I’m not sure I can do that,” Robin said, running her finger round the rim of her glass.

“What does that mean?” Strike asked, a little indignant.

“You know exactly what I mean. Your relationships haven’t been long term things, not really. You haven’t even bothered since Lorelei,” Robin told him.

Strike swallowed his mouthful, paused and put his plate down. It was true, he had held off any possibility with anyone, turned down every overture he’d received since Lorelei and her painfully drawn out dissection of his flaws. But it wasn’t because he wasn’t bothered about human companionship. It was because he was very bothered about being available should what he really wanted float a little bit closer, close enough for him to take hold of. And here she was, reading his singleton status as a barrier, rather than a possibility. He could have thumped himself.

“Doesn’t mean I only want casual, Robin. Just means I know I need someone who understands the job. That’s all,” he managed, pouring another glass. He offered her the bottle but she shook her head.

“And there aren’t many people like that around,” she replied, ruefully.

“No, not really,” he said, scrabbling around to try and find something to say that would trip the combination lock on this. Something less schlocky than “Just you and me, I think, so the solution is obvious”.

“Oh, ignore me,” Robin said suddenly, shaking her head and smiling. “I can’t believe I’ve put such a downer on a good day, sorry.”

Strike watched the moment fade, feeling like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, repeatedly approaching that final barbed wire fence and crashing out.  _ Next time,  _ he thought.  _ Next time I’ll clear it. _

The following morning Pat was pissed off, spraying Oust liberally.

“Brand new bloody office, and you stink it out with Indian food! I’m sure it smelled nice when you got it, but it stinks to high heaven when you leave the trays in the waste paper bin overnight,” she grumbled.

“Sorry,” Strike was apologetic and sincere. He was still disappointed with how the evening had gone, and the oversight of not at least using the kitchen bin meant he was being forced to think about watching Robin leave alone and being unable to muster enthusiasm to do anything but tip the remains of their dinner into the bin by Pat’s desk. He didn’t even make it back to Nick and Ilsa’s where he was still staying while looking for a new place, slumping on the sofa instead.

“Barclay left a message, he’s going to be ten minutes late,” Pat said, seeming to relent from her opprobrium towards Strike on account of his downcast demeanour.

“Right. I’ll be in the office then,” he said, and walked away to the sound of the aerosol hiss behind him.

Robin arrived soon after, breezy and cheerful, and despite his funk, Strike did feel better when he saw her, as he knew he would. 

“Where’s Barclay, then?” She asked, hanging her coat up and flicking her laptop up and on.

“He left a message, gonna be a bit late. Michelle and Hutchins are on Cat Burglar. She seems to think he’s got another one hidden away,” Strike said.

“Really? He’s a shifty sod, that one,” Robin said, putting her password in.

Barclay arrived about twenty minutes later, a paper folded and tucked under his arm. 

“Sorry, bloody roadworks everywhere. Ah don’t much care about nae havin’ a car, but the buses don’t get through roadworks any quicker,” he explained, sitting down in the seat in front of Strike’s desk and dropping the paper down on it.

Pat came in with three mugs of coffee, and handed them over in turn. Barclay took a drink and started to speak, and Strike’s eye was drawn down to a small paragraph and headline on the folded copy of the paper. It wasn’t the main headline, it was one of the smaller pieces that merited the front page, but not top billing. Strike registered the words as Barclay spoke, and realized it would likely be in the big black three inch letters before too long, and that was absolutely not good for all sorts of reasons.

“Y’reet boss?” Barclay said, realizing Strike hadn’t heard a word. Strike looked up and across at Robin, who furrowed her brow, curiously.

“What is it? You’ve gone white,” she asked, concerned.

Strike tried to quickly calculate how to best respond, but Barclay had already taken note of where Strike had been looking, pulled the paper off the table and looked at the headline before Strike could grab it and deflect.

“Oh, aye, there’s been three o’ these now. Properly starting to scare the horses,” Barclay said.

“What?” Robin asked, getting up to see what he was reading.

“Robin,” Strike stood quickly too, moving round the desk and snatching the paper out of Barclay’s hand.

“Cormoran, let me see. It’s in the paper, it’s not like it’s a secret,” Robin said, exasperated.

He handed it over, the concern etched in his face making Robin’s stomach swoop sickeningly. She scanned the page.

“Well it’s not the royal baby, surely, and I can’t…”

She stopped abruptly, and Strike stood helpless as she saw the headline. He didn’t know what to do, and took a step towards her, putting his hand out instinctively to her arm.

“Sam, can you give us a minute,” she said, flatly.

Barclay looked at her and back at Strike, who nodded.

“Right, aye,” he said, pushing himself up out of the chair and making himself scarce. 

“Are you ok?” Strike asked her.

“Yeah,” she said in the same flat tone, and then turned to him and he folded his arms around her, feeling her shaking.

“It won’t be him, ok. You’re safe anyway. I promise,“ Strike said. She dropped the paper to the floor and pressed her head into his shoulder. It landed with that damned headline face up.

**Gorilla Mask Rapist Claims Third Victim**


	2. Chapter 2

_'Cause I don't wanna lose you now_

_I'm lookin' right at the other half of me_

_The vacancy that sat in my heart_

_Is a space that now you hold_

_Show me how to fight for now_

_And I'll tell you, baby, it was easy_

_Comin' back here to you once I figured it out_

_You were right here all along_

**_Mirrors - Justin Timberlake_ **

“I’d really rather we just did something. It was just the shock, you know that,” Robin insisted, putting the mug down when she had finished the restorative cup of tea Strike had organized. He had spoken to Barclay outside about the update and sent him on his way.

Strike nodded. He recognized in her the same need he had to plough into work when things were tough. Some people did it with exercise. He remembered the release he used to feel after a run, or the vigour of a rowing machine. He was never a gym bunny, that would have felt like a waste of time. But the stress release of pouring energy into something, he understood, and he knew Robin did too.

“Ok,” he said. “Your call. What’s gonna help?” he said, leaning on the desk beside her.

Robin pressed her lips together, and thought.

“I’ll give Vanessa a call. A gorilla mask is pretty bloody specific. It might expedite things if I can at least suggest Trewin’s name,” she said calmly.

“Good thinking,” Strike agreed. “She might be able to tell you if there are forensic leads. I don’t know what they’ve got on file, but…”

“Yeah. Worth doing. Then at least I’ll feel like my conscience is clear,” Robin said.

“Robin, your conscience is already clear, yeah? You’ve got no responsibility here. Fuck, even if it is him, you got the bastard sent down,” Strike insisted.

“I know, I know,” Robin shook her head. “Just a turn of phrase. I know,” she repeated.

“Right then,” he said, pushing up from the desk. “I’ll get out of your hair and let you phone Vanessa. I’ve got an appointment at ten to see this new place. I’ll check in with you later.”

She nodded, and he could see that steely focus returning before he’d even finished putting his coat on. 

The flat was nice enough. Almost everything was a step up from the rackety Denmark Street attic rooms. But Strike was preoccupied with Robin, and the patter of the estate agent did nothing to effectively distract him.

“It’s compact, I grant you, but for the price, it’s well appointed, and the light is good,” he was saying, sharp of suit and carrying one of those leatherette document wallets, his parker pen slotted neatly through a loop at the top of it.

“Yeah,” Strike responded. “Trouble is, ‘compact’ I’m not."

He walked into the tiny shower room and saw clearly there wouldn't be enough room to sit down on the toilet unless he left the door open.

Ten minutes later he lit up as the estate agent held up a hand in farewell. He was never going to find somewhere at a price he could afford. Rooms in shared houses were the province of younger people. Strike was 40 now, set in his ways, and needed a little more legroom than anywhere he had found so far. 

Robin seemed to like living with Max, but that was just two people in one house, and Strike was fairly sure Robin was an easy housemate. He turned that thought over like a smooth pebble in his hand, and then carefully laid it down.

He finished his cigarette, pulled his phone out and called her. She responded quickly.

“Hi,” she said, and Strike could detect no tension in her tone. “Was it any good?”

“No, it was another bloody broom cupboard. Might suit a hobbit,” he told her.

“I bet you’ve got the hairy feet, though,” she chuckled. _Ok_ , he thought, _she’s making jokes. That’s a good sign._ “I spoke to Vanessa. All she could say was that the DNA evidence is rubbish. I gave her the name, so that’s done.”

Strike wasn’t sure it was, because as soon as she turned to the topic, he noted the lightness in her voice began to falter.

“Ok, well I’m coming back in now. I’ll bring some lunch back with me,” he said.

“Yeah, we’ve got two possible new client meetings this afternoon. Plenty to be going on with,” she replied, sounding on surer footing. 

_“So you fill the gap with the work”_

_Whatever gap it was_ , he mused, picking up a couple of Boots meal deals on the way back. Pat had gone gluten-free which mostly seemed to involve bringing in a small collection of tupperware tubs with sticks of vegetables and houmous every day. She hadn’t seemed very happy about it, which gave Strike both a pang of empathy and bolt of realization of exactly why she was so annoyed about the stale curry.

The next few days were busy and Robin and Strike fell happily back into the job. Strike saw another disappointing possible flat, and the new clients brought bread and butter cases which meant Barclay, Hutchins and Greenstreet would be fully occupied, and the two partners took over Cat Burglar because Robin was determined to flush out the _other,_ other woman. Vanessa phoned Robin to let her know that Trewin was registered to an address in Birmingham and had an alibi.

The shock of the headline seemed to recede quickly, and each day brought new challenges. Strike could feel a fizzing sense of being on the precipice of something, looking around at their agency, with its steady stream of business, competent employees and healthy bank balance. It was all he’d ever wanted, and he couldn’t have had any of it without Robin. Even if he’d deliberately set out to find the perfect partner, he wouldn’t have landed on a person so incredibly well suited to what he wanted.

It was one thing that she was good at the job. All the subcontractors on the books were good at it, or Strike wouldn’t have kept them. But to share a vision with her, and the determination and commitment to make it work? She’d slotted into his life like there was a space made only for her, like it was fate, if he believed in all that shit.

He picked up that gratifyingly smooth pebble in his mind and toyed with it more than once that week. He had spent so long worrying about the impenetrable future and losing everything that he had such a tenuous hold on. Now he wondered if the fear of losing something tomorrow was robbing him of being able to really enjoy today.

So it was that a week after celebrating Robin’s first big case success, Strike made the decision to stop tinkering with the combination lock and kick the door down. It hadn’t been an easy conversation to start. Robin had been garrulously excited about cracking Cat Burglar, a second win in as many weeks, and seemed determined to go over every detail that had got her there as they sat in the pub. Strike nursed a pint, trying to pick his moment.

“...and they always think they’re being so clever, but they never are. It’s amazing how someone can fool themselves so completely…”

“Robin!” Strike barked, judging that the opening wasn’t going to arrive in the next two hours, so he was going to have to jump anyway. She stopped and looked at him, nonplussed.

“What?” She asked.

Strike held the side of the table between them with his left hand, his other round his pint. He tapped his finger on the wood and opened his mouth to speak, taking a large, slow inbreath as he did.

“You know the other day, when you said it was hard to find someone who understands the job?”

“Yes,” Robin blinked, holding her head to one side, curious.

“That there’s not many people who get it? Who you could actually have something with, something that works?” He continued, and pressed his lips together, willing the words out. She nodded, slowly.

“Well, I think that’s true, and I think I’m incredibly lucky to have found one,” he said, with finality.

“Oh,” Robin replied, her shoulders falling a fraction. She seemed to gather herself. “Well I’m happy for you. I don’t want both of us to be lonely!”

Strike frowned. He thought he’d struck it cleanly. Why was she responding as if he’d bobbled it and hit the bar?

“Me neither. That’s the point,” he said, confused.

“Ok,” Robin was obviously a bit ticked off. “Well there’s no need to rub it in. Not sure I want to live vicariously through your new girlfriend.” She picked up her glass and took an irritated sip.

“I meant you, Robin. I was talking about you,” he blurted. The feeling of heart in hands had been swept away by both the need to correct the misunderstanding, and the deeply pleasurable realization that she was as unhappy about him being with someone else as he would have been about her.

“Wha… _me_?” She spluttered, putting her drink down. He watched her process the new information and then look at him guardedly, like he was about to pull a joke gun out and say ‘bang!’

“Me?” She repeated. 

“Yes,” He affirmed, and scratched the back of his head, uncertain of her reaction. He watched her face shift from stunned surprise, through comprehension, and then he saw the twitch of her lips as she began to smile, and he let out a relieved sigh.

“You’re serious?” She asked, the question more a statement of delight than actual query. Strike gave a huffing laugh.

“Why would I not be?” He asked.

“I’ve no idea. Stupid thing to say, sorry. I mean, I just wasn’t expec… I mean. I mean, Ok,” she managed.

“Ok?”

“Yeah,” she said, her smile widening. “Ok.”

Strike took in his moment of triumph, understated and ungilded though it was. 

“Cracking. Want another?” He asked, gesturing to her drink.


	3. Chapter 3

_ Aren't you somethin', an original? _

_ 'Cause it doesn't seem merely assembled _

_ And I can't help but stare _

_ 'Cause I see truth somewhere in your eyes _

_ Ooh, I can't ever change without you _

_ You reflect me, I love that about you _

_ And if I could _

_ I would look at us all the time _

**_Mirrors - Justin Timberlake_ **

The next few weeks saw Strike carrying himself differently. No fanfare accompanied the shift in their relationship, no huge dramatic gestures or statements. The most frequent occurrence was Strike stopping a few times, shaking his head in pleasurable disbelief that after the past few years of agonizing denials, being with Robin like this had been as easy as walking from one room into another. Then he would smirk, let out a happy huff of breath and carry on with his days. Days that were just as they had been, full of interesting work, the challenge of trying to find a new place and move out of Nick and Ilsa’s spare room, an attempt to cut down on the smoking. Only now his days often ended at Robin’s place, in heated embraces and contented murmurings nuzzled into his neck.

Eventually, Nick had worked out what was going on, having walked into the kitchen while Strike was making breakfast, on the phone with Robin, making a comment so saucy it was unmistakable lover’s banter, and it had all come out over bacon butties.

“Ilsa will be delighted,” Nick had said. “But you will have to deal with the tsunami of ‘I told you so’. I’m already bracing myself.”

Strike conceded in a shrug, but the ribbing of good friends was hardly a black spot in his happiness. That came a week later when a new headline, this one the main event, screeched out that another woman had been assaulted by a man in a gorilla mask. This time Robin had seen it first, and he had known something was amiss from the minute she had arrived in the office. He had spent the night in his own bed, alone, suddenly aware that he had woken up with her every morning for three weeks straight, and at first he read her demeanour as an indication she was unhappy that he hadn’t done so that morning.

“Must have been nice to have a bit more room last night,” he tried, lightly, expecting a fight about it.

“What?” She asked, distracted from making tea, which she had been doing with clipped irritation, throwing the teabags in the mugs and stabbing at them in the hot water with a teaspoon.

“I just meant, you might have enjoyed the space,” he explained. She shook her head a little, confused.

“I s’pose,” she said blandly, and then, two seconds later and with some vehemence, “I’ve just spoken to Vanessa again. I saw the headline on the way in, there’s been another attack. I made her tell me what she knew. Apparently they’re attacks on lone women, seemingly random, in different parts of the country, so he’s travelling to these places from somewhere, he’s not a local. He’s covering his tracks too, she said he uses… bleach, and other things. That’s why the forensics are so rubbish.”

Strike took a moment to take in what she said. He felt foolish for his insecurity, and a little guilty that he hadn’t been with her that morning. He also noted that she was talking about the case in the same tone she used for their own work.

“Right. God,” he said, coming to help her with the tea, getting the milk from the fridge. “What are you thinking?” He asked, knowing better than to second guess her.

“I’m thinking he must have form to know about destroying evidence. And that looking at the geography might show a pattern of movement at least,” she said, chewing in her thumbnail as she mused aloud.

“Ok,” Strike said, putting the milk back and handing her a mug, “but you know the police will have thought of all that too?”

She looked at him properly, like he was coming into focus.

“I know,” she said. “Is there some reason I shouldn’t be thinking about it too?”

“I’m not sure it’s going to help you to…”

“I’m not sure helping me should be the main focus in solving a case,” she said quickly. 

Strike looked at her, and shook his head, saying gently, “This isn’t our case.”

Robin swallowed, and set her head at a defiant angle.

“Oh, right, so you expect me to just pretend it’s nothing to do with me? To watch it unfold and make sure I don’t use my own skills to try and stop it?” She said, and he heard her reasoning tumble out, knowing it was something she would have been rolling around all the way into work.

“It isn’t anything to do with you Robin. It’s a horrible coincidence, but we’re not the police,” he insisted, but she was immovable.

“You have no idea if it’s just a coincidence or not. No idea. I don’t expect you to do anything, I’m perfectly capable…”

“I never said you weren’t, Robin!” Strike said, putting his mug down, tea barely touched.

“But you’re not going to help?” She asked, indignant.

“Help with what?!” he said, his voice getting louder despite his desire to calm her.

“I need to do this, Cormoran. For my own sanity. I need to do something,” she pleaded.

He was shaking his head lightly.

“If you won’t support me, that’s your decision,” she said, flatly.

“I didn’t say I wouldn’t support you, I just don’t think it’s wise. It’s a police matter, we don’t have the same resources…”

“They’ve got no more leads than we do!” She flared again. “And I can’t believe you expect me to just sit back and let the police handle it! How did it go last time there was a personal connection to a case? Did you let the police handle it?!”

He blinked, remembering the Ripper case and the necessary interventions he’d made that had brought it to an end. He also remembered the danger Robin had been in and the turmoil it had caused their partnership.

“Did I try and stop you investigating it because you were connected to it? Or did I understand that it mattered more because you were?” Robin’s voice broke a little as she finished speaking.

Strike stood beside her, a little stunned, running his tongue behind his teeth as he considered what she said. After a short moment, he reached forward and pulled her into a hug.

“I just… I just need to feel I’ve done everything in my power,” she said into his shoulder.

“I know,” he replied. “Ok.”

Sometime later, they sat in front of a laptop, google maps open in front of them, the locations of all four attacks marked.

“Could he be based somewhere specific and be making deliberate trips?” Robin asked, her elbow on the desk, her chin resting in her hand as she swirled the mouse on the screen as though a pattern would emerge from doing so.

“What are the transport links? Train?” Strike asked, already looking on his phone and scrolling through. He shook his head. “Bristol, Coventry and Peterborough are doable if we assume a Birmingham base, but Norfolk is a fucking nightmare to get to whichever way you go,” he said, reaching forward and bringing the map of the East coast more into the centre of the screen. “Back end of beyond, this latest one.”

“Right,” she said, still thinking. “Bristol and Coventry have airports?”

“Norfolk is hard to get to by train but you don’t need to be airlifted in,” he smiled, and for the first time that morning, so did she. She turned back to the screen.

“Of course, we’re assuming he is actually based in Birmingham. If it is Trewin, that’s just where he signed on to the register. That doesn’t mean he’s there all the time,” she pondered.

“You said he had an alibi? How strong is it?” Strike asked.

“Vanessa said a barman agreed a man matching his description was in a pub in Nechells at the time of the Coventry attack,” she told him.

“Not water-tight, then,” Strike said, widening the focus of the screen again.

“No, not really,” Robin agreed.

Strike looked at the screen, and tapped his little finger absently, narrowing his eyes.

“What if,” he said slowly, reaching for the mouse to use the cursor as a guide, “he’s not in one place fanning out and coming back to base again. What if he’s going in one direction?”

Strike began in Bristol and traced a line curving up and across towards Norfolk. They both looked at the screen, feeling like they were on the edge of something just out of reach. Just then, a loud burbling from Strike’s stomach drew their attention away from the screen. Robin laughed.

“Come on, let’s get something to eat. We’ll come back to it with fresh eyes,” he said, letting go of the mouse and standing.

“And a full belly,” Robin said, grabbing her coat.

“You’re ambitious,” Strike joked, patting his stomach.

“I’ve not got so much to fill,” she shot back, patting hers with a grin.

Sitting on a bench on Embankment half an hour later, Robin sipping coffee and Strike still chewing, they watched the bustle of people also on their lunch break. Strike considered that at one point, Robin was one of these faces, rushing off to another temporary job, wasting her talent on typing meaningless memos and filing cabinets full of dull, but well organized information. How could it be right for a woman so original to be lost in this sea of the mundane? He looked over at her, still lost in thought. She was trying to work it out, and he could see her mind working, almost like he was watching a version of himself.

“He’s got to be supporting himself somehow. What if it’s a job?” She said, turning her coffee cup around in her hands.

“Something cash in hand would be easy to conceal. No need for his NI number,” Strike added, scrunching up the wrapper from his burger and putting it in the black bin by the bench.

“Casual, then,” Robin said.

Strike leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, rubbing his hands together as he looked out over the Thames.  _ Casual work, travelling, probably by road _ . The sun was behind them in the early afternoon, the sky clear, and the glint from the water made Strike squint a little. As he did so, the sunlight bounced off the slowly turning pods around the circumference of the London Eye on the opposite bank, and the thoughts came together in a satisfying mental click, making him sit up.

“What?” Robin asked, alerted by his body language.

“Funfairs,” he said.


	4. Chapter 4

_'Cause with your hand in my hand and a pocket full of soul_

_I can tell you there's no place we couldn't go_

_Just put your hand on the past_

_I'm here tryna pull you through_

_You just gotta be strong_

**_Mirrors - Justin Timberlake_ **

The next task was research, of course, and the afternoon was taken up with searches and phone calls, but the day was fast getting away from them, and when Pat disappeared, Strike looked up from his laptop over to Robin. Her eyes were focused, and he could see the little crease between her brows that denoted intense concentration.

"Did you want me to come back with you this evening?" He asked.

"Only if you want to," she said without looking up.

He had only gone back to his single bed at Nick and Ilsa's the night before because of a hit of panic about his independence. He hadn't enjoyed sleeping or waking up alone, but it was like a reflex. He didn't want to relinquish what he had held onto so tightly for so long. But she wasn't asking him to. She had enough to concern herself with right now.

"I'll go back then, give you some space," he said, and she looked up.

"Ok," she said, surprised. "You don't need to, though."

"I think I should," he said, cross with himself now, but unable to shift course. Maybe it was for the best. Retaining some distance was good insurance in case… he lingered at the opening to that thought. Did he really believe there was a possibility of impermanence here? 

“Right then,” she said, and he could hear a clipped tightness in her response, “shall we call it a night? I’m tired." She pulled her laptop closed smartly and stood up, beginning to gather her things. He could sense her annoyance, but he knew rowing back now would be useless. Robin was as stubborn as he was and would just read it as insincerity. Perhaps it was. Perhaps determined solitude was more him than warm nights wrapped up with her. _You fucking arse._

It was too late now, anyway, she was almost ready to leave. Despite her bristling irritation, she came over to where he was sitting, bent down and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll ring you,” he said, by way of consolation. She smiled and turned for the door. 

“I’ll wait by the phone,” she teased, and was gone.

Strike flopped back in his chair and ran his big hand over his face, rubbing at his temples. He felt like giving himself a slow clap of derision. After the day she’d had, he should be spending the evening with her, distracting her from whatever demons still lingered over this case. He knew there would be some, despite all the healing she had done and everything she had achieved since that man had knocked her off course in the most hideous way. A wave of anger passed through Strike, and he felt the hand at his face ball into a fist and tap against his brow bone. He wanted to make her burdens lighter, not add to them. What was he so afraid of now? That this would end in thrown wine and recriminations and that everything would shatter? 

Or that it wouldn’t?

Strike woke the next morning with his head at an awkward angle. It took him a few seconds to register that what was in his arms was not Robin but both his pillows. His phone was beside his head, left there from that last phone call with her before they had both turned in, and he looked ruefully down at his habitual morning response and wished he was holding flesh and blood not feather and down.

He rubbed his face, idly considered a shave, and picked up his phone. For the first time in months, he dithered about whether to phone or text her. He tried not to overthink it, but he was suddenly unsure of what actual messages he was sending with his methods of communication, and the interval between sending them. He didn’t know why he was trying to make this so complicated.

**You up yet?**

He typed the words quickly and pressed send, getting up, putting his leg on and going to the bathroom for a pee, tossing the phone on the bed. When he returned a couple of minutes later, there was a missed call from Robin.

He phoned her back straight away.

“Sorry, in the loo,” he said, as though she would be fretting about him not answering the phone.

“Good for you,” she laughed. “Is the idea to overnight? I just want to think about if I need to take anything.”

Strike had stayed in the office after she’d left and with renewed determination and a need to distract himself from the overthinking he still couldn’t properly lay down this morning, he’d pored through facebook pages for travelling funfairs, and finally tracked the movements of a firm that followed the trajectory they needed. More importantly, it was still in situ in a town nearby the latest attack; Alysham, Norfolk.

He’d suggested they travel there the following day. It was a good three hour journey depending on traffic, and while it wasn’t Barrow, if they wanted time to really poke around, overnight might be a good bet. It was gone eight-thirty as it was.

“Yeah, why not? Unless you’re sick of the sight of me already,” he said. There was a very slight pause on the line.

“No, ‘course not. Great. I won’t be long,” she replied.

“Funfair food is always a bit disappointing, d’you know that?” Strike said, already eating a packet of crisps as they drove through the Norfolk landscape, 

Robin snorted as she kept her eyes on the road, the wide, flat expanse stretching as far as the eye could see in every direction.

“You’re a connoisseur, are you?” She asked. 

“I’ve eaten a lot of food in my life, so I’m a bit of an expert, yeah,” he replied, shaking the last broken bits at the bottom of the packet into his mouth. Still chewing, watching her grin, he continued, “I remember begging my aunt for some candyfloss at a fair once, because it looked fucking enormous, and I thought it’d keep me going for days and it turns out candyfloss is about as satisfying as a wet fart.”

Robin burst out laughing, which pleased him. “Ok, we won’t have any of the candyfloss, which I did quite like, but you’ve put me off for life!” She confirmed.

Eventually, they found Aylsham, having skirted around Norwich avoiding the city centre. The funfair was set up in a field on the outskirts of the town, and Robin parked in a Starbucks takeaway just beyond it. 

The ground was a little uneven, dry from a few weeks without rain anyway, and the grass was sparse and well stomped down by hundreds of pairs of feet wandering from gaudy rides to tat stalls and back again.

“You fancy the teacups?” Robin asked as they passed the ride, spinning and undulating, only a few of the seats taken.

“D’you fancy seeing everything I’ve eaten on the way up again?” Strike said mildly.

“Nice.” Robin wrinkled her nose. “How about you just try and hook a duck or toss a hoop and win me a flammable teddy, then?”

Strike looked over at the one of the booths, where a wall of sugar pink and lemon yellow teddies were crammed behind a hoop toss game billed at £3 for five hoops. He cast his eye sideways at Robin, who surely couldn’t have been excited by the idea of having one of the hideous teddies, but seemed delighted by the suggestion she had made nonetheless.

“Three quid? You know they’re a con, right? You won’t get one of the big ones, even if you do get the hoops over the rigged set up,” he said.

“If I’d have known you were such a grumpy sod about the fair, I would have stayed at home,” she laughed at him. “Besides, I’m not going to win a teddy, you are.”

She looped her arm through his and steered him towards the pink and lemon wall of fluff. He shook his head at the nonsense, but didn’t resist, or suppress a sudden smile. He watched the first two hoops clatter against the poles without accuracy, managed to get the next two over the furthest pole, and was left with everything riding on the last. Robin stood with her hands in her coat pockets, thoroughly enjoying the spectacle of Strike lining up with a small red quoit to try and get her a cheap and nasty looking teddy bear.

“You know, I could just go and kill a bison for you, like in the olden days,” he sighed.

“I don’t want a bison, though. I want a pink teddy,” she told him, and her expression was actually a challenge. He gave her a lopsided grin and resumed his focus, steadied himself, and missed.

“It’ll have to be the bison, sorry,” he said.

After following the smell of fried onions past another ride decorated with coloured lightbulbs and the entrance to a hall of mirrors, they found a portable kitchen, and the two detectives stood to the side of the open hatch where they had just purchased astoundingly unhealthy, but extremely tasty burgers. Strike announced he was taking back his earlier negative statement about funfair food, and Robin smirked.

“We should try and speak to the site manager or whoever’s in charge,” she said, wiping away grease from around her lips with a crumpled white serviette.

“There’s usually quite a close-knit feel to a travelling community. We might do better to start smaller, wander round the residential vehicles and have a word with the staff,” Strike mused, still chewing.

They found the collection of caravans and campers in the far corner of the field, and a small group eyed Strike and Robin as they approached. There were five people, three men and two women, all of whom looked in their late teens or early twenties. Two of the men were smoking and one of the women was scrolling through her phone.

“There’s no rides down here, it’s all back that way,” said a skinny blonde girl in a grey hoodie, holding a purple can of Monster, and nodding towards the fair.

“Actually, my partner and I aren’t here for the rides,” said Strike. “We wanted to ask you a few questions about a case we’re investigating.”

Strike knew the value in carefully chosen official-sounding words. Letting the person you needed information from assume you had the authority to ask questions was quite an artform. Usually ‘case’ and ‘investigation’ did the trick, and a simple designation of Robin as ‘my partner’ gave the air of police work without needing to be more explicit.

The atmosphere of the group shifted from guarded and dismissive to something a little more cowed.

“Oh yeah?” Said one of the smoking men, in jeans and a black band t-shirt.

“The people that work here, you all know each other, yeah?” Strike asked.

The group nodded, looking around at each other.

“I guess if you’re travelling together, you get to know everything that’s going on. Do you have any casual help when you set up locally?” Robin interjected.

“Sometimes,” said the guy in the black t-shirt. “What’s this about?”

“We’re just looking for someone who might have been following the route of the fair as you’ve travelled up-country,” Strike explained.

“Well, it wouldn’t have been any of the casuals. They’re usually locals, short term,” the blonde girl offered.

“Is there anyone who has been with you in the last few months that joined you in, say, Bristol or that area? He might have a few pale patches on his skin somewhere,” Robin asked her.

“No, don’t think so. Although,” the girl paused, “Suze’s bloke has been about since two stops before Bristol. He doesn’t do much though, bit of help setting up sometimes, maybe. He’s a bit older, keeps himself to himself. I think he’s running some benefits scam, but she likes having a bloke in her bed, so she never gives a shit about that sort of thing.”

Robin and Strike exchanged a glance.

“Could we have a chat with Suze at all?” Robin asked.

“I’m not sure where she is. Her van is the fifth down there, on the left,” the girl responded, gesturing behind them with her purple energy drink.

“Thanks,” Robin replied, and she and Strike left the group, who watched them go in the direction of Suze’s caravan, and then seemed to be engrossed in conversation once more.

“Quite surprising how nice some of these are,” Robin remarked as they walked past the touring vehicles, with their cream walls and well appointed furnishings visible through the large windows.

“Didn’t peg you for a caravan enthusiast,” Strike replied.

“I’m not,” Robin laughed a little, “It just didn’t occur to me that living on the road would be a comfortable experience. But I suppose it makes sense that you’d want it to be if it was your life.”

“Maybe I should look into one instead of looking at broom cupboard flats too small to _be_ a cat in, let alone swing one,” Strike mused.

“I’m not sure where you’d park it in London!” Robin said.

“I’m not sure I’m ever getting out of Nick and Ilsa’s spare room.”

“Well, I did,” she reminded him. “You’ve been sleeping with me every night in the room I moved into for weeks now, so it can obviously be done!”

“Not every night,” Strike said, and he heard the defensive note before he realized he’d used it.

Robin looked at him, taken aback. “It wasn’t a complaint,” she said.

“I didn’t mean…”

“Well, what did you mean? I’ve not forced you to sleep over, and I haven’t told you to sod off either. I thought you wanted to,” she said, stopping and turning to him. 

“I did!” He exclaimed, adding quickly, “I do!”

“Right. Great,” Robin said, clearly irritated with the exchange, but seeming to be holding back from whatever was churning behind her eyes.

“Great,” Strike responded, rather weakly, frustrated that she hadn’t pressed him further and teased out what was bothering him, because he couldn’t quite grab a hold of it himself without her help. She looked at him a brief moment longer and then resumed the walk to the caravan. He winced in annoyance with himself and followed her.

Upon reaching the van, he knocked on the door, but after a few minutes of no answer forthcoming, it was clear Suze wasn’t home.

“Are they still up there?” Strike asked Robin, who peeked around the corner to the group of staff.

“Yeah, but they’re not interested now,” she assured him.

Strike wasted no time in trying the door, and then managing to prise it quietly open when it proved to be locked. The inside of this caravan wasn’t quite the standard of some of the others they passed, but it was comfortable enough, and clean and tidy but for a few clothes tossed on on a padded bench, upholstered in earthy tones, and some clutter on the flat surfaces.

“What are we looking for?” Robin asked, pulling on the latex gloves she had retrieved from her bag and handing a pair to Strike.

“Anything with ID on it, something to give us a clue about this guy, paperwork maybe, photos,” he said, trying drawers.

Robin ventured further into the mobile home, and opened more private cupboards and drawers, filled with clothes and underwear. She knelt down to see if there was any storage under the bed, and fished out a couple of shoeboxes, lifting the lid of one. Strike heard the sound she made and instinctively called out, “You all right?”

She appeared at the door of the bedroom, and he felt the dip and swoop of his stomach when he saw what she held in her gloved hand. It was the synthetically furry, distorted, rubbery, dead-eyed face of a gorilla mask.


	5. Chapter 5

_Yesterday is history,_

_Tomorrow's a mystery,_

_I can see you're lookin' back at me_

_Keep your eyes on me_

_Baby, keep your eyes on me_

_**Mirrors - Justin Timberlake** _

Strike took in the large, ugly mask, which Robin held between two gloved fingers as though it was toxic, and then looked at her face. She looked back at him, her eye contact determined and brave. Then a number of things happened at once. Her eyes shifted to the space behind him, and her expression changed from determined to slightly panicked. Strike made to turn, but before he could, the back of his knee was shunted forward with a heavy blow like a kick, and his leg gave way beneath him. He toppled over with a shout of pain, the prosthesis popping awkwardly out with the force of the blow as he fell. He looked behind him to see what he knew must be Trewin, with a look on his face somewhere between a sneer and rage. Then the other man was gone, and with a rising tide of panic, Strike realized that the flurry of red-gold and dark blue that fled past him in pursuit was Robin.

“Robin!” He bellowed, but she had gone, and he scrambled to right himself from his undignified collapse. His knee was a knot of agony from the kick that had also ripped the prosthesis off, and his stump was singing with the pain where he had landed on it. He grunted in pain, clutching the end, baring his clenched teeth, willing the flames of searing pain to subside a little quicker so he could somehow go after her. He’d have to try and get the leg back on, and with an iron will, he pulled himself up to sitting, though the pain had hardly lessened, and pulled up his trouser leg to see the exposed stump. He gave it a cursory glance; there was no time for self care here. He pulled the leg back on, letting out a sobbing yelp. He took a shuddering breath in, and pulled himself up with the help of a nearby chair. Once standing, he knew it would take weeks of physio to deal with this, and that the immediate need to move was going to require all his reserves of control to withstand the pain, but the rest of his mind was consumed by the fact that his Robin had just run after her rapist in a flurry of adrenaline and god knows what else, and he had to find her. He stepped gingerly down from the caravan door, and then propelled himself forward, in a lolloping gait that hit every nerve in a repeated shockwave, back towards the rides and the stalls, his eyes scanning the milling people for a glimpse of red-gold hair. He was trying to maintain focus, but the agonizing thrum of his leg was clouding his perception, and making everything swim, as though there were far more people around him than were actually there. He stopped, getting his bearings. He was down past the burger shack and he could see the teacups whirring and lurching a few hundred yards away. There were plenty of people around, but no reddish blonde hair in sight. 

He hobbled back to the burger shack, the smell of onions now quite nauseating. Leaning against the hatch, pulling oxygen in, pushing the pain down, he caught the attention of the woman filling up the squeezy ketchup.

“Have you seen the woman I was with earlier go past at all? She’ll have been running, I think,” he panted. The ketchup filler shrugged and shook her head. Strike leaned back against the side of the van, his head falling back as he continued to survey the crowd, trying to put as little weight on his bad leg as possible.

“Oh, hold on, I did see Suze’s bloke running about ten minutes back, and I think someone was chasing him. Didn’t notice who,” said the ketchup filler a moment later.

“What direction?” Strike barked, and Ketchup pointed to the hall of mirrors across from them.

“I think they went in there,” she said, and resumed her task.

Robin had recognized him immediately. She had no idea if he registered who she was, but he had seen the mask in her fingers and his eyes had flared with wild anger, and she’d watched as he’d lurched for the back of Strike with his leg, kicking with all the force he could muster, and then vanishing through the open door. Robin had dropped the mask, and all she could think was that she couldn’t let him get away, not now, not ever. Her legs had flown on instinct, adrenaline pulling her down a tunnel with her quarry at the end and no room at all for conscious thought. She kept sight of him, running in a stupid flailing manner, towards the blaring music and whirring mechanical rides, keeping pace easily with him. He kept glancing back at her as he ran, making the stupid running look more ridiculous. Good. He was ridiculous, this vicious man who lied and brutalized and she hated him and she would stop him forever, here, today. She saw him veer to the right, into one of the rides, red columns at the side of a wide opening, above it the big, brightly painted words ‘Hall of Mirrors’. She raced in after him, and was suddenly plunged into gloom, the daylight gone as quickly as an extinguished candle flame. It brought her up short, and she needed too long for her eyes to acclimatize to the shift. She blinked, her breath stuttering, and the adrenaline push began to fade, to be replaced by a fierce trembling and a horrible realization that she had just run headlong into danger.

As her eyes adjusted, instead of the room making more sense, it made less, and actually looked stranger. She thought it was full of people and then realized with a start that she was looking at a number of different versions of herself, distorted and distended like in a nightmare. _Hall of Mirrors. The clue is in the name._ Even knowing that these were mirrors did nothing to ease her disorientation, no doubt exacerbated by her adrenal response. She forced herself to step forward, and her insane doppelgangers all danced sickeningly as she moved. She stepped around a corner, to be met by more of them, but no one else. The sounds of the funfair outside were muffled and her own heartbeat was almost deafening as she tried desperately not to breathe so loudly, straining her ears to try and hear movement or speaking by someone else in here. Again, she forced herself to creep forward, round another corner and yet another refracted group of her selves. 

This was supremely foolhardy. She had no way of knowing if Trewin was still in here. He may well know of another exit. And the further she moved into the mirrored maze, the less certain she was of how she planned to deal with him if she did find him. Her sudden rush of vengeful fury had dwindled to nothing, and now all she wanted was to step outside into daylight and the welcoming arms of Strike.

 _Strike_! The image of him falling in the caravan seemed to hit her as though she hadn’t seen it before. In her panic-flooded response she had only seen Trewin and now she really did feel a wave of nausea as she thought of Strike laying stricken on the floor, in pain, helpless, and most significantly right now, with no clue where she was or ability to help her. She turned to backtrack her steps, but when she did, she was faced once more with her nightmare clones, and each of them seemed to be standing directly in front of all possible avenues of escape.

“Oh god,” she breathed in terror, and then she saw a figure that was no version of herself loom behind each one of her, and she ducked on instinct as Trewin swung a long metal pole at her head. It missed her by a whisker, and instead connected with the distorted clone beside her, the mirror smashing with a horrifyingly loud crash.

Strike was already making his way over to the Hall of Mirrors when he heard the noise of splintering glass. His pain didn’t slow him now, and he surged forward into the darkness beyond the entrance.

“Robin!” He bellowed, and ran into the madcap visions of his hulking bear-like form, limping as fast as he could past the thin, short, tall, warped Strikes that followed alongside.

“Cormoran!” 

He heard her further in somewhere to his left.

“Robin, stay put! I’ll find you!” He yelled.

“I can’t!” She called back, this time to his right. “Trewin’s in here!”

Strike braced himself as he turned another corner, now on high alert.

“Trewin! It’s over. You’re done!” He called out, every step still agony, but his eyes checking every visible opening for something other than a reflection of himself. He spotted a new corridor and moved towards it, and as he turned, he heard the black whizz of something propelled towards him and felt the thudding crunch as metal whacked into the back of his shoulder. He turned defensively, and Trewin was pulling a crowbar back to deliver another blow. Strike put a hand up to grasp the other man’s forearm to prevent it descending, but the momentum was such that he merely slowed it. He jerked his head to the side and the crowbar connected with the glass behind it, another smash dissolving his reflection as he fell to the side. The mirror had disintegrated to reveal Robin crouching behind it, her hands over her head to protect it, blood spattered cuts over her knuckles. 

She looked up, and their eyes met. There was no time for more than that before Trewin let out a howl of fury and tried to bring the crowbar down on Strike’s skull. Strike rolled to the side, towards Robin, to avoid the weapon, his coat offering some small protection against the broken shards of mirror on the floor. Trewin was a man possessed, smashing down again at the prone detective, shrieking as he did so. He was going to kill them both. Robin was now on her hands and knees, reaching for her partner to pull him from harm’s way and underneath the hand that still supported her, she felt the sharp sting of glass. Looking down, she saw her hand on the silvered remains of mirror, over a shard that was curved like a dagger. She closed her fingers around it and threaded it instantly to the hand she held out to Strike, who met her eyes once more, and understood, twisting back out of the aim of Trewin’s next blow, and thrusting the glass upwards as hard as he could, and as far as he could reach, just under the lungs of their howling assailant.

Trewin gave a sharp squeal of shock and staggered back, the crowbar tumbling from his grip and landing heavily beside Strike’s good leg. He fell to the ground in front of them, and Strike watched his breathing falter, slow, and stop.

Strike turned back to Robin, who was shaking in earnest now, her hands bleeding, and her eyes wide. Then she laughed. A disbelieving, breathless laugh. Strike reached for her, his hands closing around hers, both of them wincing in pain from their various wounds and injuries.

“You ok?” He asked, tenderly.

She nodded, her laughter slowing, and becoming a relieved smile.

“Yeah. You?” She asked back.

“I’ll live. Can we just do Skegness again next time, though? This shit is better by the sea anyway.”


	6. Chapter 6

_ It's like you're my mirror  _

_ My mirror staring back at me  _

_ I couldn't get any bigger _

_ With anyone else beside me  _

_ And now it's clear as this promise _

_ That we're makin' _

_ Two reflections into one _

_ 'Cause it's like you're my mirror  _

_ My mirror staring back at me, staring back at me _

**_Mirrors - Justin Timberlake_ **

Strike had spent the next few weeks with Robin enforcing rest. He felt no need to resist this with anything more than the token expectation, and it occurred to him more than once that Robin seemed to thrive when she had a focused task, and he really didn’t mind being her focus. The new marks on her hands and wrists were disappearing quickly, and there was something in her manner that spoke of other scars really beginning to fade.

He had left the leg off for a week, despite his dislike of pinning his trouser leg up, and once he was carefully putting it on again, he still relied on the crutches. He’d been waking up every day beside her, and some of the mornings had been absurdly beautiful, the sun streaming across her sleeping form, his hand stroking the warm burnish of her hair, and then her blue-grey eyes opening and being delighted he was there.

It was a while before he realized he was still holding tension in his heart, waiting for the bubble to burst. He never slept at Nick and Ilsa’s now, the assumption was always that he would be at Robin’s place. He tried to squash the misgivings, and slowly the grumpy temper crept back up, those beautiful mornings now punctuated by grey ones, with rain spattered windows, and a nagging fear that if he needed space it would cause an argument.

He was angry with himself, in ways he couldn’t define properly. He could so easily have lost her mere weeks before, just as she could have been torn away a number of times before that. The thought still sent shards of fear through his chest, and his brain compulsively ran through images that stoked it. Robin propped up on a trolley in A&E, holding her wounded arm, Robin cowering in a barge while he disarmed a murderous narcissist. But then, right at the start there was Robin winding a scarf around his wounds after helping him against John Bristow, and that moment he had looked at her in a hall of mirrors and she had moved like she was the other half of him and they had only survived because of it.

The more he thought about it, the grumpier he got, until Robin pulled him out of his head one evening as he ruminated again over whether he should stay.

“Is it the budget that’s restrictive?” She asked him.

“What?” Strike replied, refocusing.

“Well, I’m just thinking you’d probably had more options if you had more money to play with,” she clarified. Oh, yes. The fruitless flat hunt. He had visited less and less places as the months had worn on, and that concerned him too; there weren’t many options and he was beginning to get very comfortable living with Robin.

“Yeah, well if money was no object I’d have a penthouse pad in Chelsea with a private lift, but you know…”

Robin slapped his shoulder playfully. “You know what I mean!”

“Yeah, if I had a bigger budget, I could afford something, but I can’t see how that’s gonna fly right now. We’re already stretching to afford the new office,” he said.

“There are other options,” Robin said quietly, sipping her wine, curled up on the sofa next to him.

“I’ve already had enough debt in my life to never want to owe anything to anyone ever again,” he replied bluntly.

“I didn’t mean a loan. And honestly, Cormoran, I’m really not sure why you have to be so bloody determined to do everything the hard way. Doing things by yourself is all well and good, but sometimes it’s the bigger move to accept that alone isn’t always best,” she said, a little sharply, and he blinked at her.

No, alone really wasn’t best. Sometimes it was good, and healing, to be apart, but what good had keeping love at arms length ever done him? Nothing Robin had ever done was designed to destabilize his peace, on the contrary, every step she had taken, even the ones he wished at the time she hadn’t, had been with the aim of making everything better. It dawned on him as he sat there, comfortably domestic and happy, that he had been waiting for the other shoe to drop, assuming that dramatics would erupt any second, and that he had absolutely no idea how to just live with a woman who loved him and wasn’t plotting the next explosive event to stave off her boredom.

Finally, like the splintering of a distorted mirror image falling away to reveal reality beyond, he understood himself.

“You’re right,” he said, and she looked at him with a cynical expression that told him she wasn’t convinced he had heard her. “You are!” He insisted, sitting up and turning to her, emphasizing his full attention by putting his big hand on her knee.

“I’ve been worrying about cocking this up so much that I’ve almost been talking myself into it, and I’ve only just realized what a fucking idiot I am,” he said, looking at her steadily. She took in the changed atmosphere and put down her wine, the better to listen to him.

“Go on,” she said, a trace of a smile at the idiot remark.

“I’ve been hung up on thinking that… I don’t know… you wanted things from me that I couldn’t give you. But I think I’ve been shadow boxing with a Robin that doesn’t exist, because you’ve never indicated that you want anything other than what I want. And I don’t want to push you away because I’m too much of a coward to give you what I  _ can _ give you,” he said, watching each flicker of her eyes and press of her lips as she heard what he was saying.

“What can you give me, Strike?” She asked him, serious, but a light dancing behind her cloudy eyes.

He swallowed, ready to jump.

“You’re right that I can’t afford a place on my own. But  _ we  _ could just about afford somewhere together. If you fancy it,” he said, adding the last as a vulnerable afterthought. He saw her expression freeze, and then her eyes widen, and for a brief, horrible moment he thought he had misjudged this, and then, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud, she smiled.

“Yeah, I s’pose that’s the pragmatic option,” she said lightly.

“Fuck off, Ellacott, this is the height of romance,” he shot back with a grin, elated. “Seriously. Would you be ok with living with me?” He added, less cocksure.

“Yes, you complete arse, of course I would,” she laughed, and launched herself into his embrace. He leaned back, pulling her with him, and they passed the rest of the evening chatting about locations and requirements they had for living arrangements, in between tender, gentle kisses.

A month later, Strike used the brand new key to open the door to their new flat; ground floor, one bedroomed, and a big bay window looking out onto a relatively quiet London street.

“Get a move on, this one’s heavy!” Robin said behind him, adjusting her grip on a large brown box. He pushed the door open and let her move past him, patting her bum as she did.

“Oi!” She laughed as she stepped over the threshold.

“Sorry! Just thinking about all the places we have to christen now,” he teased, reaching down to pick up one of the boxes already piled on the two-foot long pathway in front of the building.

“It’s not that big a place, Cormoran!” She called back, moving into the kitchen.

“Look, it’s at least four times, kitchen, lounge, bedroom and bathroom,” he said, following her.

“You forgot the yard out the back,” she added, warmly, turning to him when he put his box down and running her hands round the back of his neck, leaning against him.

“Up against the wheelie bin?” He smirked, kissing her. She pulled back with an expression of amused distaste.

“I’d rather not!” She said.

“Ok, but I think four rooms should keep us busy enough for a few hours,” he replied, and she giggled.

They spent the rest of the day shifting furniture and boxes around, losing themselves in each other’s company and the energy of the task. Once the basics of seating, telly and kettle were happily situated, they called it a day and cooked together in their new kitchen. The sun had long departed and Strike drew the curtains against the night outside, turning to look at Robin sprawled on the sofa, stretching herself out luxuriously.

“I got you something,” he said, grinning.

“Yeah. A new place,” she joked.

“No, something else,” he said, walking over, lifting her long legs, sitting down beside her and pulling her legs back over his thighs. She sat up, curious.

“Really?” She asked.

He nodded, smugly, pleased he’d managed to keep this to himself for so long. He reached over to his coat, tossed casually on the arm of the sofa, and pulled a flat, black jewellery box out of the pocket.

“It’s nothing fancy, I just saw it and thought it was funny and it made me think of us,” he said, handing it to her, almost apologetic. She seemed delightedly stunned, and he watched her in a sideways, nervous glance as she opened the box. Inside was a fine silver chain, and suspended from it, a silver pendant. There was a pause, and then she laughed warmly.

“It’s a donkey!” She exclaimed in surprise.

“You like it?” He asked.

“I love it!” she said, immediately retrieving it from the pad inside the box. “Help me,” she said, unhooking the lobster claw fastener, handing him the chain and turning her back to him, scooping her hair away from her neck. He reached around to put it in place and then carefully hooked the chain, bending down to press a brief kiss on the back of her neck as he did. She turned and looked down at it, gleeful.

“Brilliant!” She announced. He was quite speechless, looking at her glowing with joy at his gift, utterly and completely in love with her. She met his eyes, her hand on the silver at her neck, like she was touching the most precious thing in the whole world.

“Love you,” he said, quietly.

“Love you back,” Robin replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading this! It's been a labour of love, as I had the story mapped out from beginning to end, and that rarely happens with my fanfic. I knew exactly what beats I wanted to hit, and all the ways I wanted to link it to the song that I think is so perfect for them.
> 
> I have to give credit to MissdeVine for her idea that Strike really needs to meet Robin in some self sacrificial way, which gave me my last chapter after my ideas had only got as far as the hall of mirrors.

**Author's Note:**

> Had a lot of these ideas rolling around for a while, but this has crystallized from listening to Justin Timberlake's Mirrors a lot, and a very insightful friend's analysis of Strike and Robin and next steps.


End file.
